Dust to Dust
by livingonakiwi
Summary: Stiles/Derek One Shot AU: Derek and Stiles' relationship through the years, inspired by song Dust to Dust by The Civil Wars, continuation of fan fiction Sarah Minor. Prompt: Put your playlist on shuffle and write something based on the first song that plays. Rated T for language and sexual themes.


Continuation of **Sarah** **Minor**:

s/10388675/1/Sarah-Minor

Fan Fiction Prompt: Put your playlist on shuffle and write a fan fiction bases on the first song that plays.

AU: Derek and Stiles' relationship through the years, inspired by song Dust to Dust by The Civil Wars, continuation of fan fiction Sarah Minor.

* * *

**Dust to Dust**

* * *

_**It's not your eyes**_  
_**It's not what you say**_  
_**It's not your laughter**_  
_**That gives you away**_  
_**You're just lonely**_  
_**You've been lonely, too long**_

Derek had gotten a new phone and, whilst he knew Stiles' number off by heart, he didn't programme it into his contacts list for fear of any drunken miss-calls. Derek figured it would be easier for them both if he just moved on and he hoped the letter he'd left had been enough for Stiles to understand exactly why it was easier for them to be apart.

_'You deserve a better life than what I can give you. You're right, Stiles. You're allowed to have fun; you deserve it. I want you to live your life while you can, while you're still free, even if that means we have to be apart._

So, after a few days off of work due to 'personal issues' - consisting mainly of Jack Daniels without even the classiness of a glass; bad porn that he stumbles upon by accident, but he vaguely remembers having seen a similar scene on Stiles' laptop as a teenager; take-out dishes whose empty cases end up cascaded over the floor of his hotel room - he throws himself whole-heartedly into his job.

He's thankful when his colleagues say nothing about his recent absence, or the more-sad-than-angry expression that dominates his face when he's walking through the hallways, and sitting at his desk, and walking to his car, and walking into the office in the morning. It's just a shame, he thinks, that he can't avoid them altogether.

He has his first business meeting lined up with a client outside of the office for the first time in a month. He considers passing the meeting over to someone else but reconsiders it because, despite his doom-and-gloom depression lingering like a vindictive cloud of psychosis over his head, he needs to keep himself in check and, more importantly, he needs to move on.

First impressions aren't always everything, Derek knows that; he remembers when he first met Stiles, the over-active teenager with a heart rate like a rabbit and over-active limbs that Derek had first passed off as a nervous twitch, but later noted as a side effect of his condition. Derek didn't hate Stiles when he first met him but he was weary of him; could see the curiosity in his eyes as he threw the inhaler towards him and Scott; felt those amber eyes on his back as he walked away. One impression that had stuck with Derek is that Stiles _never_ made _anything_ easy.

He takes this in mind when he greets his client with a firm handshake and an upturn of his lips that he hopes doesn't look psychotic and murderous or, even worse, fake - he supposes the guy should know enough of the business industry to know that not every guy you meet is necessarily happy to see you, some are just better at hiding the monotonous feeling erupting inside their empty hearts than others.

From the get-go this guy is an ass-hole. Derek's done with holding the slight, fake smile that feels so out-of-place it burns his jaw, and stares at the idiot with tight eyes and an openly brutal gaze, whilst attempting to maintain a professional and as-interested-as-possible outlook, although he knows he won't be offering this guy a contract any time soon. What he thought the guy might have known about business is way of the mark and Derek and his team don't have time to teach him anything, so he's glad when his meeting is interrupted by the alarm of shattering porcelain against the floor tiles.

Derek is both ecstatic and mortified that Stiles is the culprit.

Stiles had woken up late on the day of his first job interview, had forgotten to brush his teeth before he left the house whilst still climbing into his suit pants, shoes already partly laced, only to be greeted with a busted car battery when he reached the parking lot. He screamed with his forehead braced on the steering wheel, hands gripping the padding of his seat.

He was ten minutes late for his interview and was thankful to find that the few interviews before him had run over somewhat considerably, so he wasn't technically late. However, the disappointed glare he pointedly received from the receptionist did not escape his peripheral vision. Stiles combed his hand through his hair restlessly as he tapped his foot on the floor, mimicking the rhythm of his racing heart, and pulled out a slightly wilted leaf.

Stiles gave his apologies to the receptionist and left immediately. He needed coffee and he needed to curl up in bed and cry, but, first, he needed coffee. _Besides_, he thought to himself whilst narrowly avoiding a deep puddle in the centre of the side-walk, _it's not like my day could get any worse_.

_Wrong,_ he told himself as his freshly brewed coffee splashes up the legs of his suit pants. Crying whilst curled up in the foetal position has never seemed so relevant, or so appealing.

The eye contact is awkward, frayed around the edges with an aura of longing, disappointment and prevailing-unspoken-goodbyes. Stiles has left the building before Derek has begun to put the lid on his pen. Derek leaves in a rush behind him, hoping he isn't too late to catch up. He feels the broken porcelain crunch beneath his foot as he balances his still open stacks of paperwork and printed power-point presentations in one hand and the handle of his half-unlatched briefcase in the other.

Derek follows the sound of Stiles' heart rate to the alley around the corner. Stiles feels stupid for not running further away, realising how easy it would have been for Derek _not_ to have followed him but just to have sat there and _listened_ to his erratic heart rate, or _smell_ the sweat pouring from his shivering skin.

_But,_ he notes, Derek _did_ follow him. He's standing at the entrance of the alley way with a distressed look on his face. Stiles sees his hanging-open mouth close and open again. He'd said something that Stiles hadn't heard, something that he couldn't possibly hear over the reverberating thudding of his heart suffocating his senses. He braces his back against the wall and slides down, not even stopping to think about the amount of people who have probably drunkenly relieved themselves in the spot where his backside is currently resting, but it feels alright: he feels stable, he feels grounded.

Derek folds his files into a flattened cylinder and forces them into the gap in the side of his briefcase. They hang out slightly as they jam and Derek ignores the open clasp before tossing the leather bag aside against the dumpster. He stares at Stiles with concerned eyes, taking in the tell-tale signs of a panic attack that plague his mate but he's wary to take a step forward. Instead, he feels as though he should take a step back or at the very least stay where he is.

"Fuck," he hears a ragged expel of air against the backdrop of an unsteady beating. It is followed by a sadistic laugh and the scent of saline tears, hears Stiles wiping them away with the back of his hands, spreading the moisture over the pale skin of his face.

Somehow Derek finds himself, seconds later, with his back propped against the wall next to an unresponsive Stiles; he lets himself fall to the floor in the same disgruntled fashion as he had witnessed previously, allows it to knock the wind from his heavy lungs.

Stiles emits the same sardonic huff, a sound Derek translates as ironic laughter, and he tilts his head towards Derek, lets his temple graze the padding of his blazer sheathed shoulder.

"Missed you," he sighs.

Derek takes in a deep breath. "Missed you, too," he responds, quietly.

_**Oh, you're acting your thin disguise  
**__**All your perfectly delivered lines  
**__**They don't fool me  
**__**You've been lonely, too long**_

Derek had lifted Stiles to his feet with an outstretched arm after a few minutes of silence sitting still, side by side, on the alley floor, but the silence stretched on to allow Derek the freedom of taking in surroundings other than Stiles' proximity and he had taken sudden offence to the dampness he felt beneath him. With the grace that he should not be lacking as a creature of his calibre, he scrambled up to his feet, leaving Stiles dazed in his absence.

Derek offered to buy him a replacement coffee as an apology.

"You look good," Stiles offers, stroking his fingertips lightly against the edge of his mug. He's sitting in the place Derek's client had previously occupied. Derek was glad his client had taken the hint to leave and not leave Derek with the embarrassment of returning to explain why he'd suddenly rushed out without so much as a '_thank you for your time'_, or at the very least, '_bye_'. He did, however, know that when he returned to his office sometime later in the afternoon, with crumpled paperwork that smells slightly homeless, his boss is going to figuratively whip his ass. He hopes he can take another day off work for 'personal issues' and blame today on the fact that he simply wasn't ready to get back out in the field.

Derek nods in response to Stiles' comment, mimicking the dancing of fingertips on the rim of his own coffee-filled mug. He wants to tell Stiles the same thing but he looks terrible and Stiles probably knows it, and Derek knows how little Stiles appreciates white lies. Instead he takes a large gulp of his coffee, ignoring the burning of the dark liquid on his tongue, and nods again thoughtfully, hoping Stiles will say something else.

He'd always been good like that, able to make up for awkward displays of silence, but today he seems to have fallen short. Stiles knows his coffee is still too hot to drink as viciously as Derek has just done and he recognises Derek's attempt to displace the awkward tension, almost feels sorry for him, but can't bring himself to pity him in any way. Stiles had missed him, but he hadn't pitied him. It was, after all, Derek's choice to leave.

"How are you doing?" Stiles eventually asks, regrettably. He doesn't expect Derek to fall into a complicated confession of his realisation of his complete dependence on Stiles being present in his everyday life, a simple '_not so good_' would do, just to let Stiles know that he wasn't alone.

Despite knowing Stiles' dislike of white lies, he can't bring himself to tell him the truth. _'Miserable_', he should say; '_pathetically __pining_' might even bring a smile to his face, but he sticks with his original course of dismissal. Just because he'd told Stiles he'd missed him, he hadn't revealed to Stiles his levels of Stiles-less induced depression - not just yet - and that's how intends for this to stay.

"I've been good," he lies through a tight jaw, to which Stiles responds with a delayed, knowing nod, fingers tightening their hold around the mug.

He shrugs to himself, leaning back into the support of his chair, sighs heavily and nods once, again to himself. He doesn't want to play this game with Derek, he just wants the apartment to feel warm again. "Have you been back to Beacon Hills?" he asks, looking down at the swirl of cream in his coffee.

Derek shakes his head. "No. Scott called, said he thought he might have run into trouble, but it was actually just a mountain lion." The corners of their lips turn up into a smile at the thought. "Who'd have thought?" Derek muses. "Actual non-supernatural goings-on in Beacon Hills."

"Yeah, who'd have thought?" Stiles smiles to himself, thinking of the phone call he'd received from Scott about the same matter. He'd asked Stiles to do some research for him. He'd been happy at the thought of having something to entertain him other than the soul-crushing weight of Derek's absence, so he'd spent all night reading through the books Derek had left on the bookshelves. There had even been a fort involved with the Christmas fairy lights being draped over string and beneath multiple bed sheets. It had been the first time in a week Stiles had fallen asleep without the thought of Derek on his mind.

"Have you?" Derek inquires, losing himself in the honey toned gleam in Stiles' eyes at the mention of home.

"Yeah, went back about two weeks ago, after Scott called to tell me it was safe." He hesitates for a moment, pursing his lips, biting at the inner flesh. "My dad's doing well. Got that promotion he wanted."

"That's great," Derek hears himself say, appreciates the excitement that his own voice conveys.

"He says he sort of hated it the first few days. Well, not hated, just, I don't know. He was bored, you know? But he's so used to the parole and the total _bad ass_ action he's _so_ used to," Stiles chuckles. Derek hears the sarcasm in his voice. "Because Beacon Hills is full of interesting crimes. Every _day _an old woman calls up with a complaint of having had her valuables stolen by a violent criminal."

Derek laughs quietly. "Ms Glendon still calling up, really?"

"She has Alzheimer's," Stiles smiles. "It's not her fault. She forgets she puts her valuables under her chair every night. Although, I suspect Alzheimer's is just a front for her obvious crush on one Deputy Parrish. It's cute, really." Stiles looks up at Derek from beneath thick, black lashes. "Parrish isn't too bad, either. He's grown into himself. Works out and everything," he tests the waters, grinning when Derek looks down at his coffee with a dark scowl and furrowed eyebrows. "But, you know, he's not really my type."

Derek's head tilts up slightly, inquisitively. Stiles continues. "My dad told him about the whole me and you thing, or the _lack _of the me and you thing. Parrish asked if he could take me out for coffee whilst I was there."

"What did you say?" Derek plays up to Stiles' expectations, causing his grin to spread.

"Well, I said I wasn't quite over you." Derek's expression softens minutely, shoulders releasing their tension slowly. "Are you going to keep pretending that you don't want to take me for coffee again tomorrow, or are we going to talk this through? Because, seriously, Derek, I've had a shit day. I walked out of a job interview this morning because I woke up late and I had a fucking leaf in my hair. A _leaf. T_he car broke down on me and I had to run through the park to get there. In a _suit_."

Derek sighs, shoulders hitting the back of the chair behind him. His eyes drift upwards to meet Stiles' demanding line of sight. "I don't want to take you for coffee tomorrow," he breathes.

Stiles' mouth falls slack, the hint of a breathy '_oh_' drifting from the void.

"I want to _make_ you coffee tomorrow with _our _coffee machine."

Derek fears Stiles' face might split from the grin that erupts from his words.

"Really?" Stiles breathes, disbelieving. Nodding slowly, Derek bares his teeth in a wide smile.

"Always."

"Well," Stiles begins, his smile dropping. "You might be disappointed, because _our_ coffee machine has run out of filters _and _coffee, so-"_  
_

Derek shakes his head humorously, sipping the cold dregs of the coffee remaining at the bottom of the mug, regrets it when the sour taste lingers at the back of the throat.

"I've always hated the coffee here," Stiles admits, releasing his grip from around his own, entirely full mug. "But I figured my day couldn't possibly get any worse, so."

"I guess it's a good thing you came," Derek smirks up at him.

"I guess it is," Stiles beams back, draping his hand over Derek's, tracing his thumb along the dark hairs on the back. "I guess it is."

_**Let me in the walls**_  
_**You've built around**_  
_**We can light a match**_  
_**And burn them down**_  
_**Let me hold your hand**_  
_**And dance 'round and 'round the flames**_  
_**In front of us**_  
_**Dust to dust**_

Previous routine was easy to fall back into in most respects. Derek moved his bags back into the apartment one by one, making sure to take every step with reasonable hesitance but, one night, Stiles had been particularly insistent on having Derek move all of his belongings back into the apartment.

"It feels cold without it," he moans into Derek's ear. "Feel cold without you." He bites and licks a deep red mark into the side of Derek's neck, shuddering as Derek runs a blunt finer-nail down the trail of his spine. Although the mark never lingers in hue on his skin, Derek feels it's presidency coursing through every cell of his body, acting as Stiles' reminder of where Derek belongs and Derek takes it with willing eagerness.

Stiles eventually receives and accepts a job offer around an hour-long drive away, '_but the job description is perfect_' he pleads to Derek when he sees the hard-line of his lips. Whilst he knows Derek would never hold him back from his dream job, he wants him to be okay with it.

"You could take up a hobby in those two hours I'm away from the apartment," Stiles smiles at him, stroking his fingertip over the lines of Derek's chest as they lay in bed. "You could start knitting," he suggest half-heartedly, and then laughs for an '_unnecessary_' length of time. Derek forgives him when Stiles climbs down his figure, settling himself between Derek's slightly spread thighs.

"Derek!" Stiles screeches from the living area. Derek is on instant alert, dropping the shoe he was about to put on and letting it clatter to the floor as he ran as stealthily as possible to the living area.

"What?" he demands, reaching Stiles and tracing his hands over every inch of Stiles' skin. "Are you okay?"

"_Derek,"_ he seethes, holding the phone out at arm's length. "Scott," he begins before tears gather in his eyes, glazing them in a dewy-amber hue that gleams in the morning sunlight.

"Did something happen?" Derek questions carefully, taking a step closer, feeling as though Stiles is seconds from collapsing. Stiles nods frantically.

"_Yes_," he drags out the '_s_'. "Scott," he drags out also._  
_

Derek hears muffled speaking at the speaker of the phone. He takes the mobile from Stiles, lifting it to his ear cautiously, preparing himself for the worst by biting the inside of his mouth.

"_Derek?_" Derek grunts in response. "_Dude, tell him to stop freaking out_," he hears Scott's voice.

"Why is he freaking out?" Derek asks, somewhat angrily, the _you-scared-the-shit-out-of-me_ implied in his tone.

"_I told him I'm getting married_," Scott retorts flippantly.

"Why the hell would you tell him that?" Derek questions, resting his hand lightly on Stiles' shoulder.

"_Because I am_," Scott laughs. "_Not even a congratulations, really?_"_  
_

"Shit, congratulations," Derek smiles down the phone, glancing at Stiles whose face has turned from utter shock to overt happiness, ear-to-ear grin so wide that his eyes wrinkle at the corners.

"Scott's getting married," he whispers. Derek nods as Stiles drapes his hand over the hand Derek had rested on his shoulder. Derek feels Stiles shaking beneath him, the containment of his happiness threatening to erupt. "Wow," he gulps. "Shit."

"When's the-" Derek begins, but Stiles reaches forward, demanding.

"Gimme!" he screams, holding the receiver to his ear expectantly. Derek leaves the room to put on his other shoe before he is late for work. He leaves the apartment without kissing Stiles goodbye because Stiles is jumping on the sofa, limbs flailing with reckless abandon, and Derek won't get hurt but Stiles might break his own hand if he accidentally hits Derek.

"Try not to break your ankle," Derek tells Stiles as he closes the door.

They travel to Beacon Hills for the wedding four months later. Stiles has his theories about why they had to plan the wedding so quickly, despite Derek being insistent that '_maybe they just wanted to_.'

"Kira's parents seem like the kind of people to expect marriage before children. Do you think Scott knocked her up?" Stiles theorizes as they're half way to Beacon Hills.

"Scott hasn't knocked her up," Derek rolls his eyes. "If Kira were pregnant, it would mean something more than having simply been _knocked up_."

"Dude, knocked up is bun in the oven is impregnated," Stiles replies as Derek sucks in air between his teeth.

"You have a way with words."

"It's a gift," Stiles smiles proudly. "I have a delicate literary knowledge."

"I can tell."

Stiles falls asleep for the rest of the drive and Derek wakes him up when he pulls into a drive-thru, although he already knows Stiles' order. He gets extra curly fries because he could hear Stiles' stomach growling as he slept, he wonders how his hunger didn't wake him up. He supposes it's down to Stiles' slightly longer shifts he's been taking on lately, figures he must be pretty tired.

They stay over at the Sheriff's house that night because they don't feel like staying in some low-budget motel just outside of town, the one they passed as they'd driven in. Stiles wants this whole weekend to be a classy affair, not just for Scott but because he feels as though he and Derek deserve some quality time off work together.

Derek doesn't say anything when he is greeted by the scent of perfume and the subtly feminine touches of the living room, out of pure respect, but as soon as Stiles has taken one glance at the living room he slaps a hand on his father's shoulder and praises him for _'finally getting your head out of your ass'_. He reminds Stiles that, whilst he may be significantly older now, he is still his son, and he can clip him round the ear whenever he feels like it, and the jurisdiction won't count it as child abuse. Stiles laughs obnoxiously, pulls his father into a bone-crushing hug and mutters '_I missed you, dad'_ in his ear. Derek pretends not to notice the scent of saline tears both men give off as they pull apart.

Derek half expects Stiles' father to give him the talk, _again_, considering the whole break-up/get-back-together cycle, but he pulls him into a brief hug and smiles at him openly, welcoming him into the home. He shows them to the 'guest' room where Derek deposits his and Stiles' single bag on the floor and hangs their film covered suits in the small closet. Derek closes his eyes as he sits on the bed, takes in the distant, faded notes of teenage Stiles that cling to the corners of the room.

He covers Stiles' mouth with his hand as he fucks into him tortuously slow, until Stiles is a whimpering mess. He notices the increasing volume of the TV in the room across the hall and laughs to himself. They never were subtle.

The wedding goes well. Too well, Stiles says, glancing at Kira closely in an attempt to distinguish any hint of a bump, but her dress is silk, smooth and clings to her lithe frame elegantly. '_I feel like an entire rogue alpha pack is going to jump out from the altar,' _Stiles whispers into Derek's ear. Derek hears Isaac's attempt to muffle his laughter behind his hand from the row behind. Derek gives Stiles a glare that Stiles interprets correctly as '_shut the hell up_', and thank God for that.

The reception takes place at Scott and Kira's home, a large and unsurprisingly light and open house, with nearly endless glass windows, slightly off-white walls and colour-coordinated art fixtures on the available walls. The summer evening does not disappoint and they spend the entire night outside, using the expanse of patio as a make-shift dance floor.

Derek and Stiles are sitting beneath the overhang of the roof on a bench, watching on as his father and Melissa dance, hand in hand, chest to chest, smiles of blissfulness resting on their faces; Kira dances with a red-headed kid Derek remembers is Lydia's first and, currently, only child, although he suspects there may be more on the horizon sometime soon, can almost sense it in the way she is held securely by her partner; Scott billows laughter as he exchanges words with Isaac and others he doesn't know at the far edge of the dance floor. Derek can sense an understated sadness in Stiles, not just from the way he scents his mate, but can feel it in the way Stiles steers his body as close as he can get to Derek without actually touching.

"Come on," Derek stands up, extending his hand to Stiles. He sees Stiles' face flash with confusion.

"What?" Stiles questions tiredly.

"Dance with me," he smiles. Stiles seems taken aback, hesitates for a moment before slipping his hand within Derek's, letting Derek lure him towards the dance floor. He pulls his warm body against his own, revels in the way their bodies fit together in complete familiarity.

Whilst Derek knows the sadness is still there, residing quietly within the apex of Stiles' heart, he hopes, for now, that this, right here, is enough, and the way Stiles' looks at him, with hooded eyes and a peaceful, lulling smile, well, Derek will be damned if he would think otherwise.

_**You're like a mirror, reflecting me**_  
_**Takes one to know one, so take it from me**_  
_**You've been lonely**_  
_**You've been lonely, too long**_  
_**We've been lonely**_  
_**We've been lonely, too long**_

Stiles bids his father goodbye with tears in his eyes and is forced to promise to come back soon. Derek doesn't pull him away, stands to the side when Stiles is pulled into another tight embrace by his father, lets Stiles know that has all the space and time in the world. Derek would call in for another day off work if Stiles wanted to stay another night. Regrettably, perhaps, but he would do it, despite being so close to that promotion that he can practically taste it.

Stiles orders pizza when they finally get home, before crawling into bed and falling asleep. Derek eats the pizza alone and leaves Stiles the rest in the box and puts it in the refrigerator ready for breakfast in the morning. Derek can sense his mate's exhaustion, feels it deep within his bones as though it is infecting and radiating, so he undresses and slips silently beneath the sheets, sliding his body against Stiles, moulding his body complementary to his. Stiles groans in his sleep. Derek feels him stretch out the space between his shoulders as they roll against his chest, and Derek kneads at the muscle with the pad of his thumb, dipping his face to kiss at the exposed skin of Stiles' neck.

Derek can feel the fatigue pervading the atmosphere as they continue to dip in and out of the following days. It's there when Stiles is eating cold pizza whilst leaning against the breakfast counter the morning after they return, the delicate strands of his hair pointing in a thousand different directions; it's there when Stiles is laughing at a joke he's heard a million times before on some bad late-night television programme; when Stiles is riding Derek with his fists pounding against Derek's chest, gripping at the muscle of Derek's thighs as he thrusts; when Stiles is laughing when he flips a pancake and mixture ends up in Derek's eye, and Derek chases him around the apartment, tackles him against the shower and tickles him until Stiles is _begging _with tears in his eyes, and they only stop when the fire alarm threatens them; when Derek comes home late from work and finds Stiles with a half-empty glass of Jack in his hand, resting on his chest, and he snores quietly.

He wants to tell himself that he doesn't know why, wants to deny himself the obvious reason because it would be easier to dismiss it and wait for it to pass, dismiss the idea that he _knows_ it won't pass, and that's why he does it.

That's why Stiles comes home to LED candles on the counter tops, the coffee table, the dining table; fairy lights on the balcony, and a hearty cooked meal placed atop a red table-cloth, after a particularly stressful day at work.

That's why Derek pours Stiles a glass of the most expensive red wine that he could find at a wine merchants just over a thirty minutes ride away; it's why Derek smiles at Stiles as he looks suspiciously around him; it's why Derek takes Stiles' bag away from him with a lingering, tender kiss on his trembling lips, and Derek hopes for the first time in his life that it's caused by nerves and not by _knowing_, he fears that his display is too ostentatious, a little too out of their romantic ordinary.

That's why Stiles sits through the dinner cautiously; why Derek asks questions about work like any normal day, to put him at ease; why Stiles laughs when Derek self-deprecatingly points out the grey hairs he's spotted in his beard and the few in the hair at the side of his head, and Stiles tells him excitedly that '_It's begun. The silver fox transition has finally begun_,'.

That's why Stiles cries when Derek puts down his wine glass, when he kisses Stiles' knuckles as he brings his hand to his face, whispers his promises of benevolence and affection into his skin and seals it with his lips before dropping down to one knee, tilting Stiles' incredulous face with light, loving fingers so that he can gaze deep into those beautiful, amber eyes and ask if '_Stiles Stilinksi, will you be mine, until the very end?"__  
_

It's why Stiles' throat is too raw with emotion to speak and he frantically nods his certainty into Derek's neck; why Stiles' whisper of _'yes'_ is finally expired as an emotion-riddled croak that Derek soaks up with his mouth, draws in with his own breath as they both gasp for the limited air between their joined lips; why Stiles sleeps peacefully in Derek's embrace, naked skin of their beings merged seamlessly in the darkness of the night.

* * *

Thank you for reading.


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